


Hungry Hearts

by jenny_wren



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_wren/pseuds/jenny_wren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink meme prompt for someone to look after Jim, I borrowed a character from another fandom who is the best canon look-after ever (in my only slightly biased opinion).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> From the Kink Meme Prompt:
> 
> Nobody ever gave Jim the love he needed as a child. Now he's grown up he has more responsibilities than hes ever had in his life before. He is performing above and beyond everybody's expectations of him, but he's no Atlas, and the weight of his responsibilities are slowly crushing him. He needs somebody to come home to, somebody to look after him when the day is over. Hes begging for someone, ANYONE to notice that he's suffering and give him what he needs. But he's afraid that nobody will. Any pairing slash or het, but no mccoy/kirk that would be too easy.
> 
> Note: This set in the Star Trek Universe. There are no ghosts, demons etc 
> 
> I started this story sometime ago and I'm now trying to tidy up all my WIPs.

The mess slowly emptied as the last of the Gamma shift finished their breakfast, if it could be called breakfast at almost midnight ship’s time, and hurried away to report for duty. 

Jim watched them leave, then glanced down at his PADD. He had nearly caught up with all his reports, really he should head back to his quarters and get some sleep before he was due on Alpha shift.

He thought about his solitary little cabin - not even a shared bathroom for the lofty Captain of the Enterprise, and decided he’d review Scotty’s latest engineering requests instead.

The figures were dancing before his eyes and he was trying to pin them down with his stylus, when he heard a cough, it was an apologetic sort of cough, as if the cougher had been trying to attract his attention for some time.

Jim took deep breath, fixed a smile on his face and looked up,

“Yes.”

“Hey Captain, sorry if I’m disturbing you.”

“Not at all.” Jim blinked a couple of times and his crew member’s face came into focus. Fortunately, he was too tired to struggle with his mental rolodex of crew, the face sparked his memory. He remembered feeling sympathetic when he’d seen the photo on the service jacket; he bet the almost too pretty Crewman had heard more comments about having cock-sucking lips than Jim himself had. And given the number of people who felt obliged to leer at Jim’s lips that was saying something.

He blinked wearily again, “So how can I help you Crewman Winchester?”

“Actually, I was wondering if you were waiting on something to eat? The grill’s still hot. I can do you bacon and eggs. Or, you know, whatever.”

Jim checked in with stomach, the uneasy lurch told him that eating anything would not go down well, or stay down.

“No, thank you. Still full from dinner.” He patted his stomach and tried to smile reassuringly. Something felt a bit off though, so he nodded to emphasize his point.

“Right.” Winchester rubbed his right hand against the back of his neck. “You want to come through into the kitchen? They turn the heating right down during Gamma and it gets cold out here.”

Jim opened his mouth to say no, but as he did so it struck him that, actually, he was cold, “Uh,” he said instead. He glanced around the cavernous mess. The lights had been turned down in the far half of the room, leaving the vast open space dark and cold. He shivered.

“You’d be doing me a favor. Some company would help keep me awake.”

Jim brightened. If he was the one doing the favor, that wasn’t so bad. It meant he wasn’t the lonely, pathetic Captain who couldn’t face going home to an empty bed. And he could certainly empathize with the desire for company.

“Okay,” he said.

“Great.” Crewman Winchester had a nice smile, curling up into his eyes. Jim smiled back and girded himself for the effort of standing. He got to his feet, staggering slightly as dizzy hit. He grabbed the table for support, waited a second to rebalance himself, then straightened and picked up his PADD.

Fortunately Winchester didn’t seem to have noticed his momentary lack of control. Still smiling, he gestured towards the serving area,

“This way Captain.”

As they passed behind the serving counters and into the kitchen proper, Jim looked around curiously.

“You know, I’ve never been back here before.”

“Home sweet home.”

“It’s surprisingly small.” The kitchen was divided into a small wash area, a larger prep area, and a walk-in store cupboard at the other end. It didn’t look large enough to feed all his four hundred crew.

“It’s not like they let us do anything fancy. Of course we’d be sunk if everyone turned up at once.”

Jim poked his nose into the store cupboard, “What sort of supplies have we got? I know I approved an extra three freezer compartments. And I argued Spock into Science giving up a storage room, so we could squeeze in another month’s basics. But I never really thought about what those basics were.”

“Hey, I didn’t invite you back here to work, Captain. You leave it to us, we’ve got you covered.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to sound…”

“It’s fine. I just didn’t want to distract from your real work.” Winchester nodded at the PADD still clutched in Jim’s hand. Jim looked down at it stupidly.

“Right.” He shook himself; he had to pay better attention than this. “I’ll just sit down,” He glanced around. There were two tables in the middle of the prep area, but no chairs.

“Hop up on the counter.” Winchester pointed to a spot by the cookers.

Jim boosted himself up onto the stainless steel countertop, and pushed back so he could lean against the wall.

“Ohhh,” he moaned as delicious warmth soaked into his aching back.

“Best seat in the house,” grinned Winchester.

“Oh,” Jim wriggled, trying to get closer to the heat the cookers were emitting. The width of the countertop was just too wide for his legs to bend easily and he struggled unsuccessfully for a comfortable position.

“Kick your boots off and curl your legs up.”

That sounded like an excellent suggestion to Jim, so he toed off his boots and drew his knees up to his chest, cuddling into the heat. He poked half-heartedly at his PADD.

“What you doing?” asked Winchester.

“Uh.”

“Just tell me to shut up if it’s classified or something.”

“No, no. It’s Scotty’s latest proposals for an engine upgrade. I swear, the man is the most gifted engineer in the entire fleet, but he calculates for shit. Um, don’t repeat that,” he added, belatedly remembering he was dissing an officer in front of an enlisted man.

Winchester laughed, “Don’t worry Captain, that’s tame. If the kitchen crew repeated even half of what they knew, nobody’d be able to look anyone in the eye for weeks.”

“Yeah? Anything you can tell me?”

“Well…”

 

A hand on Jim’s arm shocked him awake. He automatically clamped his own hand down on the intruder, as he turned his head, eyes flashing as he took in his surroundings.

“Careful Captain.”

Last night flooded back in one appalling info dump, and Jim realized to his horror he’d actually fallen asleep curled up on the kitchen worktop, head resting against the cooker hood. He’d probably even been snoring.

He glanced around kitchen again, this time searching for anyone who’d seen his lapse as he wondered wildly how he was ever going to explain it away.

The only person he could actually see was Crewman Winchester, and his pounding heart settled a bit.

Winchester grinned at him.

“Morning Captain. Thought you’d appreciate a wake-up call before the rest of my team show up to get ready for the breakfast rush.” Winchester’s grin turned sympathetic.

Adrenaline had cleared his early morning sleepiness, and Jim let out a great huff of relief as he grasped what Winchester was really telling him: no-one else had seen and his secret was safe.

“Thank you Crewman Winchester.”

“My pleasure, and I took the liberty...” He held out a small paper sack. Jim glanced inside, there was something wrapped in grease proof paper and a lidded paper cup.

He sniffed hopefully, “Coffee?”

“Yep, and some sandwiches for lunch. And here,” Winchester took two burritos wrapped in paper napkins from the warm stove. “Scrambled egg burritos, breakfast of champions.” He tucked them into the bag and folded down the top.

Jim stared at the paper sack in his hands feeling weirdly off-balance as he realized what he held was a sack lunch. Nobody had ever made him a sack lunch before.

“Oh, and here’s your PADD.”

Thank you,” he said automatically as he accepted it. He felt he should make some sort of joke to ease the tension, but Winchester seemed completely unbothered, so maybe the tension was all in Jim. Maybe normal people could accept a nice gesture without having mini-breakdown.

“Thank you,” he said again, “for everything.” And then he fled.

 

Later on the bridge, fortified by egg burritos and coffee, he opened up his PADD and was happily surprised to discover that, even though he couldn’t remember doing it, Scotty’s calculations had all been thoroughly checked, mistakes neatly circled.


	2. Chapter 2

The next night, Jim was again working in the mess when Crewman Winchester popped up at his elbow.

“Uh,” said Jim, because he wasn't sure how to act knowing Winchester had seen past his efficient Captain mask. Sometimes Jim felt like a little kid wearing a uniform five sizes too big for him and stubbornly trying to insist he was too grown up, cross his heart and hope to die.

“Captain,” Winchester grinned at him, “I’m glad I caught you. I’m in need of your Captainly expertise.”

“Go on,” said Jim cautiously. He wasn't feeling very Captainly at the moment, but he would always try.

“Pie tasting.”

“Pie tasting?” Jim checked, because he couldn’t see where the catch was.

“Yeah. We have a load,” Winchester spread his arms wide in demonstration, “of oshi-goshi fruit that Dr McCoy insisted we bring on board at our last stop. And of course nobody willing eats oshi-goshi fruit, not even Dr McCoy.”

“Cause they’re like super-sour gooseberries.”

“You have spotted the critical flaw in Dr McCoy’s plan to ensure we receive - the full complement of vitamin C, goddamit, even if we are trawling through space in a glorified tin can.”

Jim could hear Bones saying that too. He sighed. “I'll speak to him.”

“You don’t need to speak to him, though it would be nice if he remembered we do actually receive training in nutrition before they let us loose on the unsuspecting. The point is we have a load of fruit about to go off and about the only thing we can do with it is cook it down into pies.”

Jim’s nose wrinkled, “I’m not sure oshi-goshi pie would actually be edible.” He gagged slightly thinking about it.

“Hence the need for pie tasting. I've mixed it up with about everything I can think of, now I need help deciding which flavor to inflict on the masses. Oshi-goshi and apricot is the most obvious combination, but I think the cinnamon vanilla tastes better. The raspberry one is good too, and well, you see why I need a second opinion.”

“Alright, I’m curious now, I can’t imagine anything making oshi-goshi taste good, lead me to the pies.”

Winchester insisted he sit up against the warm wall again, and Jim couldn't exactly deny it was comfortable. The kitchen was full of the friendly smell of baking and there were six pies laid out on cooling racks, neat slivers cut from each one.

“Just let me get a plate.”

Together the slices Winchester cut him made up a quarter of a pie.

“I can’t eat that much,” protested Jim.

“You don’t have to. Hey, you want ice-cream with that?”

“I can’t,” said Jim mournfully. Why couldn't he be allergic to nasty stuff like oshi-goshi instead of the deliciousness that was ice-cream.

“We have soya ice-cream. Or sorbet?”

“We have soya ice-cream? Why didn't anybody tell me? Wait a minute, why do we have soya ice-cream?”

“For people who are lactose-intolerant. There are sixty-four on the ship including you. Although I have to say you personally have the snazziest set of allergies I've ever seen.”

“Well good, I’d hate to disappoint. But ice-cream.” Jim would deny it, but he might have pouted then.

“Sorry Captain, I thought you knew. We do try and accommodate the Captain’s tastes, you know.”

“I guess that makes sense.” Jim scratched his head over the idea the kitchen crew were worrying about his preferences. Generally he was just thankful if his food didn't try and kill him. It made Bones so grumpy when that happened.

Winchester fetched a tub from the side freezer and added two scoops of vanilla ice-cream to the plate. Jim grinned with anticipation. Even if he had to suffer through oshi-goshi, he got _ice-cream_ to make up for it.

Five minutes later he was taking it all back.

“This is amazing,” he mumbled through a mouthful of scrumptious pie. “You’re amazing. However did you make oshi-goshi taste good?”

Winchester shifted uncomfortably and scrubbed at the back of his neck with one hand. “It’s just pie.”

“This is not just pie. Wow, what’s in this one? Is that onion?”

“Uh huh. And ginger.”

Alarmingly quickly Jim had an empty plate. He ran a finger around the rim in search of stray crumbs.

“So which sort worked best?” asked Winchester.

“They were all great. But you’re right about the apricot, it’s not as good. Um,” Jim tapped his finger against his lips. “You should probably make Bones happy and do the raspberry version. Two sorts of fruit will have him turning cartwheels for joy.”

“But which one did you like best?

“The onion, but I’m weird. And you’d have to lie about what was in it or nobody would even try it.”

Winchester nodded thoughtfully, “Okay. Raspberry it is.”

“Can you make crumble?” asked Jim tentatively. Winchester had sort of implied they’d do their best to prepare whatever the Captain wanted. And surely there was nothing wrong with a such minor request.

Winchester snorted, “Of course I can make crumble. Even my little brother can make crumble, and Sammy could reliably burn water.”

Jim edged back, “Sorry,” he muttered.

Winchester glanced at him, then shook his head sharply, “No, I’m sorry. You just offended my cook’s pride. I wanted you to ask for something tricky so I could show off. Crumble’s almost ridiculously easy, it’s what cook’s make when they can’t stop their pie base going soggy.”

Jim grinned at Winchester affronted expression. It was the exact same look Scotty got when Jim asked him if he could slow their ship down, “I never could figure that out.”

“Yeah, when was the last time you seriously cooked?”

“Seventeen, after that I earnt decent money and could afford takeout.”

“Favorite takeout?”

“Andorian pancakes with squabi sauce,” said Jim before he thought it through. He slapped himself lightly upside the head. He was getting far too tired if he was going around telling the truth. “I mean pizza.”

“Okay, now Andorian pancakes count as a challenge.” Winchester grinned and Jim could almost see his brain ticking away trying to figure out how to make the crunchy-skinned, soufflé-like pancakes without an Andorian double-sided grill.

“Seriously, pizza would be fine.”

“For me it has to be Tellarite Larxi. Those boiled almost dumplings.”

“Man, I’d forgotten about them,” Jim licked his lips, even if he was full of pie, “I haven’t had them since… well ages ago. Can you even get them on Earth?”

“Dunno, after I was a toddler the longest I've been on Earth in one go was my three months Star Fleet training and they kept us on base pretty much the whole time.”

“Colony boy, huh?”

“Pretty much,” Winchester shrugged his shoulders uneasily and Jim had a sudden vivid image of what he must look like when people asked him about his childhood. He changed the subject,

“So anything new on the gossip front?”

He fell asleep to the soft whirr-thump of the dough mixer and Winchester's low voice.

 

Mid next shift, when he collapsed in the mess for a working lunch with Spock, Uhura, Scotty and Bones, and the mere thought of food turned his stomach, the Crewman on duty brought a tray straight to him.

Jim opened his mouth to send her away, then spotted what was on the plates,

“Where did that come from?” he demanded, possibly over-imperiously. He softened his expression and smiled at the woman as he flicked through his mental rolodex for her name.

“Gamma shift left them for you,” said Crewman Penny Albright.

“What is that?” demanded Bones.

“Dumplings and sauce, then oshi-goshi and onion crumble with ice cream,” said Albright, placing the plates on the table.

Bones’ hand snapped out, and Jim curled his own hand protectively around the small cup of ice cream before Bones could grab it.

“You can’t eat ice cream,” howled Bones.

“It’s soya,” said Albright, sounding cut to the quick. “We look after our Captain here.”

“Thank you Penny. Ignore Bones, he just likes fussing.”

“Thank you Captain,” she flushed and ducked her head, smiling shyly at him without the smallest hint of flirtation. Jim couldn't be more than six or seven years older than her but he wanted to pat her on the head or something else ridiculously avuncular. God, but his life was depressing.

On the other hand there were compensations, like Tellarite Larxi. He pulled his plate possessively close and fished out one of the dumplings with his first two fingers and thumb.

“Why do you get dumplings, Kirk?” demanded Uhura. “I didn't see them on the menu.”

“Captain’s perquisites,” said Albright. “The Captain may order whatever he wishes.”

“So now you've got the poor kitchen staff slaving over a separate meal just for you.” Uhura glared at him.

“Excuse me, but we’re very happy to, ma’am,” said Albright, shaking with her own daring. “And Captain, Alpha shift would be happy to take your requests directly. Crewman Heuse is a cordon bleu chef. He and Crewman Talavi are trained to meet all the requirements of diplomatic dignitaries.”

“Nah, it’s okay, I don‘t want to take up their time. Anyway, I’m not much for French food.” He patted Albright on the arm with his unsticky hand, “Thank you for bringing this over.”

“It was my pleasure Captain. And really, if you want anything at all, you only need to ask.” She bobbed her head and scurried away.

“French too sophisticated for you, kid,” teased Bones.

“Yeah, guess I’m just a dumb hick at heart.” He let his mouth fall open giving Bones a good view of mushed up Larxi and grinned when Bones and Uhura both cringed. 

“I cannot believe they made you Captain,” muttered Uhura

“Aw baby, don’t be like that,” whined Jim, well-satisfied with himself. 

Uhura groaned and kicked him under the table. Jim did her the favor of pretending she’d caught him by surprise, and yelped. She was his current ally against the insanity that was Bones and Spock, he didn't want her mad at him too.


	3. Chapter 3

Lunch turned out to be the bright spot in an increasingly stormy day. As he stumbled his way to the end of Beta shift, Jim was actually thinking longingly of his empty bed in his calm, quiet cabin. His mind was reeling like it was punch drunk and pulsed with what promised to be a bitch of headache. 

He was fighting a losing battle with his budget requests - damn things just would not add up straight, it would help if he wasn’t seeing double - when Sulu asked him about a course change, Jim wasn’t even sure he’d properly grasped the question, coming up with a coherent answer was utterly beyond him.

“Use your best judgment, Sulu.”

“Captain,” began Spock, and Jim had to take a deep breath to avoid snapping at his First Officer who seemed to be making it his life’s work to offer a dissenting view point, even to Jim’s most innocuous decisions. 

“Mr Spock, would you like to consult with Mr Sulu on our course.”

Jim didn’t bother attempting to follow their discussion, just tried to look thoughtful as he pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose in an effort to subdue the pounding in his skull.

“So what do you think, Captain?” asked Spock finally.

Jim was hard put not to yell, ‘For God’s sake, use your own initiative.’ They were all trained Starfleet Officers, they were travelling from one friendly planet to another through Federation space; how difficult could it be? He took another deep breath.

“Summarize each option in fifteen words or less,” he said, trying to sound cheerful and not exasperated.

“But Captain, I feel – ”

“Four words down, Mr Spock.”

Spock’s face quite clearly said he thought Jim was not only illogical but an idiot to boot. Whoever claimed Vulcan’s were expressionless had clearly never had one give them that blank-faced look of haughty disapproval.

Sulu’s explanations definitely had more than fifteen words involved, but significantly less than if it had been Spock. Jim’s head was far too thick to follow it though. He simply plumped for the option Sulu was obviously talking himself into. He just wished the decision could have managed without involving him. Sulu was the helmsman, he should be able to plot a course without Jim holding his hand.

Fortunately Sulu had been readying for the course adjustment as they spoke and it was under way before Spock could come up with a reason to object. Jim’s smile became a bit less rigid. He glanced at the clock, and was hard pressed not slump with relief when he saw there was only ten minutes left on shift.

Which was when the call from Admiralty came through.

 

Dean slammed the dishwasher shut on the last load from Gamma shift’s midnight breakfast.

“Okay you lot, you can head on out.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Kwei snapped out a text-book perfect salute. Dean thwacked him with a soggy dish towel.

“You wanting to stay on and help me with tomorrow’s baking?”

“Hmmm,” Kwei pretended to consider the idea as Dean narrowed his eyes at him.

“That’s not even a decent threat, boss,” mocked Guzman. “As if you’d let anyone mess with your precious sourdough starter.”

“I got plenty of potatoes you wiseguys could be peeling,” said Dean cheerfully.

“Boss, that’s what the potato peeling machine is for.” 

“It could break,” Dean grabbed the nearest metal implement, a spatula, and swung it casually, “it could break real bad. They might not be able to fix til we hit a Starbase. Maybe not even then.”

Kwei and Guzman both winced. 

“Maybe we better be going,” said Guzman as they edged towards the exit.

“Yeah,” agreed Kwei, “let’s leave the mad scientist to his work.”

“Get out of here you clowns,” Dean flicked them both with the dish towel as they skittered towards the door. “Hey, did either of you see the Captain come through?”

They both shook their heads.

“Nah,” said Kwei, “he’s probably tucked up in bed. Poor guy’s looked a bit tired lately.”

Dean carefully didn’t roll his eyes. The Captain didn’t look ‘a bit tired’, he looked exhausted.

“Apparently the Admiralty’s still giving him a hard time,” said Guzman, whose girlfriend worked in Communications.

“Assholes,” said Dean and Kwei together. The officers could be sniffy about the Captain if they wanted to, as far as Dean was concerned he’d stick with their inexperienced Captain, who knew their names and met their eyes. Dean was pretty sure his previous captain had thought he and his team were advanced sorts of robots, he certainly treated them as if they were.

The Captain, though, was kind to all the crew. Dean particularly appreciated it for the kids in his kitchen squad. It hurt to think of a remote, uninterested Captain chipping away all their eager, shiny earnestness - even if they made him feel a hundred years old in comparison.

Mind you, they were spoilt kids. The Captain even cleared up his own tray, which everybody was supposed to do - only the departmental lunches and the once a week officer’s dinner were catered, the mess was not – but was generally avoided by anybody who felt they had the pull to do so. The Captain had actually called out two science officers who tried to abandon their trays and sneak off. Dean’s squad had no appreciation for how unusual that was.

“Confusion to the Admiralty,” said Dean. Kwei and Guzman amen’ed.

“You all set, boss,” checked Kwei.

“Yeah, yeah, get out of here, and give your girls a kiss from me.”

“Oh I don’t think so, I’m trying to keep this one, I’m not having her go all moony-eyed over you.”

Dean waved the dish towel threateningly and they fled laughing.

 

Jim stared at the Bridge vid-screen, three Admirals facing him down across a table, and carefully did not swear. He’d had enough of them over the past six months to recognize a board of enquiry when he saw one. When he was sure his voice would come out steady he ordered the call transferred the second conference room. Placing his hands on the arms of his chair, he levered himself to his feet.

“Captain, your clothes are in disarray,” sniffed his annoyingly pristine First Officer.

“Thank you Mr Spock.” Jim straightened his shirt. Not everybody could be like Spock, still freshly pressed and starched after a double shift. “You have con.”

He stopped just outside the second conference room to rub his face and take several long breaths. When he felt marginally more human, he fixed a smile on his face and opened the door.

“Gentlemen, what can I do for you?”

Three faces glowered out the screen at him. “Captain Kirk. We have a number of questions regarding your adherence to Starfleet protocol during the mission on Drugar VI.”

“I am at your disposal.” Jim took the seat opposite the screen. Early in the mission he’d actually spent an hour trying different positions to ensure he appeared attentive and not nervous, or overly-casual. Jim found it worked best if he had a PADD on the desk and a stylus to hand as if he was taking notes. This allowed him to slide his free left hand out of sight under the table where he could dig his nails into his thigh when frustration got too much for him.

Now he clamped his hand down until it hurt as he fought to keep his face dutifully alert under the tide of bullshit crashing over him.

He wouldn’t mind so much but the mission to Drugar VI was a success: everybody safe, Drugar happy, contract signed. But still Jim had to explain his every action and justify the smallest deviation from Starfleet protocol. 

He wondered why he bothered sometimes. Nothing he did made anybody happy. If he was in the wrong whatever he did, was there any point in doing anything. If the world is determined to drown you, was it worth the effort to keep fighting your way to the surface.

Jim was so very tired.

 

As Dean fetched a fresh flour sack his eye caught the glow of the conference room monitoring lights. The lights let the kitchen crew know when the room was occupied so they didn’t make a wasted trip across the ship to collect coffee mugs and other detritus. That was all dealt with on Alpha and Beta shift, nobody scheduled meetings during the nightshift.

So Dean didn’t usually bother to check the lights and it was with surprise he realized the second conference room light was still lit up. He wondered if it was broken and considered taking a screwdriver and investigating, then remembered it was the second conference room that had the direct vid-link to Earth. If the Admiralty were grilling the Captain, that’s where he would be.

His hands flexed in agitation at the idea. For a moment he seriously considered taking a screwdriver after all and making sure the vid-link broke real bad. See if they could keep hounding the Captain then. 

However this far out in space it was their only direct link with Earth and being out of contact could affect the safety of the ship, so Dean decided to hold that plan in reserve until he worked out just how often the Admiralty was dragging the Captain in for midnight conferences.

It wasn’t fair. The poor man was exhausted. Had been exhausted two nights ago when Dean finally decided to say something. The Captain rubbing his sleepy eyes and blinking at his PADD was so like a young Sammy desperately insisting he wasn’t tired and he absolutely must finish his homework because it was due tomorrow that Dean hadn't been able to bear watching a moment longer.

Dean absently tossed the deboning knife from one hand to the other as he remembered the Captain’s wan face.

“If he hasn’t had dinner, he’s probably starving by now.”

He nodded to himself. That he could fix. 

“It would need to be gentle, and easy to eat in front of other people.” Which ruled out scrambled egg burritos, couldn’t expect the Captain to eat them in front of his bosses. Then he thought of perfect solution and, smiling, set to work.

 

The knuckles rapping loud against the door made Jim jump. Before he could order the person to leave him in peace, the door opened.

The Admirals back on Earth all made various grunts of disapproval.

Jim turned and smiled strainedly at Winchester, trying to think of some way of saying now was not a good time without insulting his crewman or giving the Admirals anymore ammunition.

Winchester just marched into the room as if he owned the place.

“Captain,” he said blank-faced, “your refreshments as ordered.” With his right hand he held out a tray bearing a large white china mug.

Jim’s headache had him so befuddled, he was puzzled for a second as to whether he actually had ordered something and forgotten about it. Winchester crossed in front of him, turning slightly so his back was to the screen, putting his body between Jim and the camera. 

Quick as a flash the impassive expression melted into a grin and he winked at Jim. Tilting his head towards the screen, he rolled his eyes and made a yap-yap-yap gesture with his free hand. Then, just as quickly, he turned again, and it was a perfect stone-faced solider who placed the mug on the conference room table, spun sharply on his heel and marched out the room.

Jim blinked and wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing. But the mug was still there, smelling of warmth and pepper. Picking it up he was hard put not to moan with bliss as the heat from the mug sunk into his chill fingers.

He cautiously sipped the exactly the right temperature liquid and had to lift the mug to hide his smile at the rich, creamy taste. He didn’t often get creamy, because usually he couldn’t trust it not being actual cream, so that was an extra treat. He thought it might be chicken soup, but he wasn’t much bothered about the specifics, just luxuriated in the sensation as it soothed his raw from talking too much throat and warmed him from the inside out.

The Admirals kept talking, of course, but with the mug raised high as a shield, it didn’t bother him nearly as much. He’d heard it all before, so he just listened to the accounting of his failings with half an ear in case they actually came up with something new this time and concentrated on his soup.

Eventually the Admirals ran out of things to complain about and the meeting was wrapped up. Jim clambered stiffly to his feet, stretching out his cramped limbs and arching his aching back.

He glanced down at the mug still in his hand. He should return it to the kitchen, but something in him flinched at the idea. He didn’t understand why. Bringing him soup was a kind gesture certainly, but it wasn’t a huge, overpowering favor, so he wasn’t sure why he felt so weird about it.

Jim squared his shoulders. It didn’t matter how he felt, he was the Captain, for the moment anyway, he was not going to duck out of his duty merely because he felt stupidly nervous about speaking to one of his crew.

Clutching his mug tightly, he headed back to the mess.

The dark emptiness of the place made him shiver and he wondered how he’d ever got into the habit of working late there. He picked up speed as he walked through the echoing space towards the bright glow of the hidden kitchen.

He stopped in the entry way and coughed, holding up the mug nervously.

“Uh,” he began, then couldn’t think of a single to say. ‘Thank you’ seemed both inadequate and far too revealing.

“Captain,” Winchester beamed at him, completely ignoring his stuttering. “Come on in.” He thumped one heavy hand down on Jim’s shoulder - Jim had no idea how insubstantial he’d been feeling until then – and drew him into warmth.


	4. Chapter 4

Jim felt awkward and grateful all at the same time. Winchester didn’t seem to notice, he just kept a firm grip on Jim’s shoulder. Which was odd because Jim was handsy with people, people weren’t usually handsy with him - except Bones but that could generally be filed safely under doctor-patient. 

Off-balance from the physical contact, Jim meekly let himself be towed him across the room to the spot by the stove. There was a plate of cookies sitting there.

“Are those..?” he stopped because he didn’t want to presume.

“Chocolate-chip, hope that’s okay?”

“Yeah,” said Jim bemusedly, “chocolate chip’s great.”

“Awesome. And here,” Winchester grabbed a mug from the warmer, “I know you can’t have milk, but this is an oat-based substitute, which is almost as good for encouraging sleepiness.”

The mere mention of sleep split Jim’s face in a jaw-cracking yawn.

“Don’t think I have to worry about that, but thank you anyway.” He held the mug of hot chocolate tightly

“Happy to,” Winchester mumbled, focused on the work Jim was interrupting.

“I should leave you to it.” But Jim didn’t actually move.

“Nah, I like having the company.”

“Not much company, too busy snoring.” He still didn’t move.

“That cute little snuffly sound? That doesn’t count as snoring. My little brother used to snore like a warthog on steroids. You’re easy compared to that.”

“Captains aren’t cute, or easy.” Then he smacked himself over the back of head for possibly the most irrelevant comment ever.

Winchester grinned at him and offered, “Adorable?”

“Nope,” said Jim firmly. He wriggled up onto the countertop; since he was apparently sticking around he might as well be comfortable.

 

Dean looked at the Captain curled up on the counter fast asleep snuffling softly. He really was adorable.

“Stupid Dean. He was right, Captains are not adorable.”

Even if his Captain sort of was.

 

Jim thought he ought to be embarrassed about waking up in his ship’s kitchen for the third time in a row, but really it was far from the worse place he’d ever slept. At least he was sober. Although possibly being sober made the whole thing worse.

Actually being embarrassed was impossible though, given the way Winchester treated the situation as perfectly normal. A quick glance at the clock informed him he had no time for more than a heartfelt thank you, before he had to grab the paper sack of food and coffee and hurry back to his cabin to sonic and change before he was late on shift.

He had decided that would be his last late night visit to the mess, but the day turned out to be so spectacularly shitty, that in the end he fled to his sanctuary at the first opportunity.

 

Dean was keeping an eye out for his Captain again, and was quietly pleased when he actually came to him, appearing at the kitchen doorway with a smile full of deliberate charm.

“Hey, is it okay if I hide out in here. I swear if I see Bones or Spock again today I'll commit homicide. Or Vulcanicide. Is it Vulcanicide?”

“Sounds likely. But do come on in. Can’t have the Captain going space-crazy this early in the mission.”

The Captain pouted. Dean wanted to give him a hug and tell him it would be okay but Crewmen weren't allowed to do that sort of thing. Instead he dug out the pepperoni pizza he’d made earlier and put it in the oven to warm through.

“I’m not _space_ -crazy,” complained the Captain as he kicked off his boots and took his seat by the stove. “I’m ‘Bones and Spock’-crazy.”

“Really?” said Dean as deadpan as he could manage.

His Captain looked puzzled, and then he groaned. “Not like that. I meant they are driving me crazy.” His hand patted across the table looking for ammunition and suddenly an onion was being lobbed in Dean’s direction.

Dean caught it neatly, “Thanks,” and started to peel it.

“Don’t you start.” The Captain leaned back against the wall and stared up at the celling. There were bruise dark circles beneath his eyes and his face was grey with strain.

Dean wondered if he needed any help with his homi and Vulcanicidal plans.

“So how are they driving you crazy?”

The Captain tilted his head so he could look directly at Dean.

“This goes no further?”

“Absolutely.”

“Fine. Besides if it goes on much longer, it will be all over the ship anyway. Bones is crap at being discrete and Spock doesn’t even bother to try. Damn them both.”

“So?” Dean prompted.

“So Lieutenant Cassel is working on extracting some sort of wonder drug from the bark of those trees we found on Gamma-Omicron-Five.”

Dean made a keep going gesture and grabbed the salt canister.

“Which is great and all, but Spock’s insisting the Lieutenant is assigned to science and should report to him, and Bones is insisting that as it’s a medical discovery she should report to him. And neither of them will give way or accept some sort of compromise. Even Uhura didn’t get anywhere against Spock’s ability to quote regulation.”

“What does the Lieutenant want?”

“She wants to use the medical labs and equipment. Bones won’t let her unless she’s transferred to his command structure. And I get it, I truly do. It just makes sense for Bones to co-ordinate her schedule with his crew, and he’s going evaluate her results. But Spock, the bastard, won’t give an inch. Cassel is assigned to science and there she’ll stay as per regulation. And he expects me to order Bones to let her use the medical labs. And Bones won’t give at all.”

“So you’re saying Dr McCoy is right, but Commander Spock’s got the rules on his side?”

“Exactly.” For a second the Captain looked excited at Dean’s understanding, then gloom overcame him again. “Bones will never forgive me if I make it an order, but he doesn’t understand what it’s like dealing with Spock. The man knows all the regulations and its hell when everything isn’t ruler straight. It’s exhausting fighting him all the time, and if Bones would just give a little bit it would all go away. Instead we’ve been arguing about it silently all week and it finally erupted today.”

“I would have thought Commander Spock would be glad to have a little less responsibility?”

“Oh no, Spock can be First Officer, Science Officer, and hell, probably Captain too, without breaking a sweat.”

“Um,” said Dean. He added some more water to the bread mix and wondered if he should say anything. He snuck a glance at his Captain. The poor man looked utterly defeated.

“I know what would distract Commander Spock,” Dean said finally.

“Yeah?”

“A surprise inspection of Lab Fourteen C.”

“I can’t inspect Spock’s labs. Besides, I wouldn’t know if anything was wrong, not if Spock didn’t.”

Dean snorted. “I think you’re a good deal more likely than a Vulcan to recognize the redjacket distillation unit they’ve got set up in there.”

The Captain flinched so violently he almost fell off the bench. “They’re making _redjacket_ on _my_ ship.”

“Yeah.”

The Captain’s hands shook as he rubbed his face, hiding his expression. Dean wondered if his acquaintance with redjacket was more personal than he’d thought. Anyone who hung out in the wrong end of town knew about it, but actual users were pretty much lost for good.

“And nobody said anything?” The Captain’s voice trembled as he remained hidden behind his hands. “Fuck! How many users do I have?”

“None,” said Dean, surprised. “They’re just making a point. They’re all honor roll officers; they can’t be stupid enough to actually try it.”

The Captain’s laugh was the grinding of broken glass, “Honor roll idiots are the very worst sort of idiot. Believe me they’ll try it.”

“If you say so.” Dean was still doubtful, even he knew better than to mess with redjacket and Sammy would never even look at drugs.

“Oh I say so. Do you know why? Other than general stupidity that is.”

“Commander Spock ordered Botany-Five cleared out.”

“Botany-Five?”

“’S where they grew the weed.”

“What? Spock ordered them to throw out the weed? Jesus, he’s a braver man than me.”

“Regulation. However, as Ensign Almgren and Lieutenant Romero have pointed out, distilling redjacket isn’t actually against regulation.”

“It’s not? Why the hell not?”

Dean shrugged his shoulders.

“That’s no problem though; I can get them on unauthorized experimentation. Not even Spock can have signed off on redjacket.”

“Think it will distract Commander Spock from bothering Dr McCoy.”

“What?” The Captain looked blank for a second having clearly forgotten how their conversation started. “Oh yes it will damn well distract the Commander. I need to have a little talk with him about when and when not to enforce the regulations. And I need to see if Scotty managed to save any cuttings.”

“Botany-Five‘s going back into production then?”

“Absolutely.” The Captain’s hands waved through the air with exasperation. “Every ship of the line grows weed, just like they all run stills, even if none of them acknowledge it.”

“Preaching to the choir, Captain.” It made sense to Dean. Providing foul-tasting hooch and weak brands of weed under the supervision of an officer with plausible deniability was a whole hell of a lot better than letting the crew get inventive. As the redjacket idea demonstrated, the thought that might actually have tried it made him feel ill.

“One inspection of Lab Fourteen C coming up.” The Captain struggled upright, visibly girding himself for the battle ahead.

“Hey wait, you haven’t had chance to eat anything yet.”

“No time,” he said, sniffing the air regretfully.

“At least take a couple of slices of pizza with you.” Dean yanked the pizza tray out the oven, and the Captain faltered. Dean shoved a napkin into his hand.

“Oh alright.” The Captain flipped one slice over on top of the other to make a sandwich and scooped it up. He stopped halfway out the door. “Thank you for telling me.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably, “Somebody was going to.”

“And you did, so thank you.”


End file.
